He wore a cashmere sweater and the gentle expression he kept for cameras. The notary stood at the foot of my bed, uncomfortable, holding a folder thick enough to bury a woman’s entire life.
“It’s temporary,” Damon said, smoothing hair away from my forehead as if we were lovers in a film. “Just medical authorization, household finances, some guardianship language while you recover.”
I looked at the folder. “And if I don’t sign?”
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Celeste replied from the doorway. “Then we’ll have to consider whether you’re stable enough to care for the baby.”
My father stood behind her, quiet, looking older than he had the day before.
Damon leaned closer. “No one wants court, Marin. Especially not with your history.”
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